


Flammarion

by knifeeyes



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romance, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26021068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifeeyes/pseuds/knifeeyes
Summary: You must understand, Mr. May, that what we are able to tell you can be...shocking...if the person reading their results is not prepared for the answer they may receive. Be aware, be...sure, sure that you are ready to know these things. Be ready.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/James May
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Flammarion

_“Love is of something, and that which love  
_ _desires is not that which love is or has;  
_ _for no man desires that which he is or has.  
_ _And love is of the beautiful, and therefore has not the beautiful.  
_ _And the beautiful is the good, and therefore,  
_ _in wanting and desiring the beautiful,  
_ _love also wants and desires the good.”_

 **_―_ ** **_Plato,_ ** **_Symposium_ **

* * *

The letter arrives on a Monday, dropped into the cold metal of his post box still covered in the dawn’s pale dew, sun hidden behind the muggy slate grey of unsurprising English weather. The letter, ( _placed there by a postman who cared little, if at all, about the contents of the mail he delivered, only that he made it home in time for his soaps at lunch_ ) was simple enough he supposed, he wasn’t sure what he expected, really. Cream envelope, the heavier weight of the letter paper giving it a slight heft as the swirls of his fingerprints rasped against the grain of the paper envelope, catching almost imperceptibly as they skimmed against it. Pale blue eyes were drawn to the company’s logo in the top left corner, embossed and heavy, deliberately set. 

_His skin crawls_. 

Holding the envelope in his hands, all other mail ( _mostly flyers and takeaway pamphlets for the new Korean place he passed every day, the one with the sign’s bulbs already half burnt out and the window sporting a large crack down the front_ ), was forgotten as he traced the fine penmanship on the front, blood red ink spelling his name out in little handwritten rivers and valleys of indented text. He had the momentary good grace to feel foolish, knowing how stupid he must look, standing in his front yard staring at his mail as his hair flapped wildly about his face, howling wind and spittle from the heavens signalling the oncoming storm and yet he didn’t care. He didn’t care, he had what he needed. 

He would be doing something completely unrelated, completely innocuous and immediately be reminded of the website, of the little London office that he learned wasn’t out of his way on the drive home, what they offered to people like him, and how easy it would be to finally find out, to...assuage his wandering mind. It took a few nights of working up the courage to even type the website in to the browser on his phone, to stay on the page long enough without feeling like a complete tit before he allowed himself to take it all in, to finally look into what they provided, the testimonials from users coming across as almost pious in the way they wholeheartedly lauded the service, and _what it gave them, what it allowed them to have. Praise this service, they said, bless them for what they have given me, for enlightening me oh Lord, this is pure happiness. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever and ever, amen._

It was new, they said, new technology that boasted a success rate of 99.9%, the “match accuracy” rate, they beamed, was already up to 95%, smiles and high pitched voices seemed practiced to encourage. “ _Those numbers are higher than they’ve ever been!”,_ he remembered the woman at the desk saying, eyes lighting up as he sighed, and agreed to give it a try. Feeling his stomach roil when he opened his mouth, allowing the woman to swab his cheek with one of those terribly long cotton swabs, when the prick of the needle for the blood sample pinched the thin skin in the crook of his arm, he feels the exact same roiling and churning and very seriously thinks for a moment that he will be sick all over his front yard. He stands with an outstretched arm planted firmly on his mailbox until the world around him swims a little less violently, until his heartbeat slows and he can stand to look up, open his eyes. He hopes the neighbours are still asleep.

_Open your eyes, dammit._

Curse his treasonous mind, his perfidious brain, for allowing him to even fixate on this one thing in the first bloody place; this one advertisement that he half suspected was some sort of information phishing scam, and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to stop thinking about it, only ceding it was real when he was sat in their London office with a helpful pamphlet (f _ull colour, double sided glossy print, smiling faces and couples with hands clasped together_ ) in his hands, his blood and saliva sitting in phials on a desk. 

_Soulmate._ That was the word they’d kept throwing around, it made him uncomfortable. It seemed almost too good to be true, too spectacular of a miracle for science to perform, too rudimentary to call something that fantastic a stupid phrase like _soulmate,_ and yet the numbers seemed to speak for themselves. He told the woman at the desk, shamefaced and red that he was tired of being alone, and it wasn’t a complete lie, nor was it the complete truth either. He also had a hunch, a quiet sort of feeling lodged in the back of his brain that he wanted desperately to prove was correct, even if only to himself. James wouldn't admit to entertaining this outrageous notion even if someone had pointed a loaded gun in between his eyes, and so he kept that part quiet, that he...well...he fancied that he already knew what the test would say. 

“ _Y_ _ou must understand, Mr. May, that what we are able to tell you can be...shocking...if the person reading their results is not prepared for the answer they may receive. Be aware, be...sure, sure that you are ready to know these things. Be ready.”_

_He nods, unable to speak, afraid the words will spill from his mouth. Afraid he will tell her that he knows the answer and is terrified anyways._

He held the letter in his hands for a moment, staring at it before remembering he should really be inside, putting his trainers and his heavy waxed canvas jacket on and patting the deep pockets to make sure he had his cigarettes and his keys. Andy had threatened him the week before, complaining that he’d never met a person so time challenged, he barely registered the jibe, the jokes that followed. He decided he would open it later, open it when he had the time to dedicate to reading every word, savour every second of the newness this allowed him, the unfamiliarity at the situation licking at his insides like humidity to his hair.

He would spend every waking minute of that Monday, nearly two months after his... _appointment_...thinking about the contents of that letter. Every second he was conscious, his thoughts were on the thing in his bag, tucked away quietly amongst papers and notebooks and crushed empty packs of smokes he’d forgotten about, left to leave small reddish-brownish flakes over all his things which irritated him to no end. Multiple times throughout the day he briefly debated slipping away somewhere to read it, to pull it from his bag and slip from the offices, his heart slamming in his chest at the idea. He felt dirty, almost perverse, for even thinking about it, feeling the same shame he would if he’d disappeared for a wank or something, knowing he should be working and yet he’d run off to do something bad. And the little voice in his head would pipe up, urging him to go, to hide away, waiting be damned...but no. He would wait. And he knew that Richard and Jeremy knew something was up, the way they would stare at him as his eyes glazed over the second someone stopped speaking to him directly, the concerned looks between them when he kept excusing himself for smokes, until the office reeked of old cigarette smoke so badly Andy had to open a window. They watched him, sharing glances when he wasn’t looking, eyebrows raised. He would zone out, and a well timed cough would snap him back to reality, meeting Jeremy’s eyes before one of them quickly looked away. 

He was tired, his back hurt and he wanted to go home. 

It was Jeremy who eventually said something, always Jeremy. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have been so surprised when Jeremy smartly cornered him alone, knowing deep down that James wouldn’t say anything in a room full of people. Meddling blue eyes looked him up and down before Jeremy spoke.

“Why are you being so...I don’t want to say weird because you’re always weird, but why are you being so quiet today?” 

“I’m not being weird at all, and besides,” he taps the ash from the end of his smoke, brings his arm up to inhale again, “why do you care?”

Jeremy furrows his brow. “Because every time I look up, you’re staring out the window, or at your bag, or at your fucking lunch. You haven’t said one word to me today!”

“Is that a bad thing?” James asks, unable to pull his lazy gaze up from the tips of his damp sneakers. 

“Of course it is, you pillock. You distract me when you’re zoned out, when you’re -” a pause, “...far away.” The final words trailing from his lips like he hadn’t actually meant to say them out loud.

Sighing, he looks at Jeremy for the first time since he’d come outside, the first proper attention he’s paid to him in hours. He appreciates the concern hidden in Jeremy’s snark, the only way he knows how to show it, really. But he appreciates it nonetheless, the thought almost warming him if he allowed himself to think about it properly. 

Jeremy; tall, loud Jeremy who he has known for longer than he can count and knows better than almost anyone. Long lines, blues and muted greens, the familiar smell of cigarettes and cologne that he would recognize anywhere. Jeremy, whose hands shake sometimes when he tells a particularly riveting story, flapping uselessly at his sides as he laughs at his own humour. Jeremy, who sometimes loses his temper and seems to regret it immediately, filling up with it moments after the words leave his mouth, and the way James always seems to forgive him. Jeremy, whose eyes sometimes flash with things James isn’t sure how to put a name on, brief milliseconds of things he knows he isn’t supposed to be privy to, moments frozen in time that catch his breath in his throat and stop him dead in his fucking tracks. 

This is one of those moments, outside of the studio in the mist on a Monday like any other, and he feels like he can almost breathe for the first time that day. Jeremy stands there, hands on his hips and a cigarette balancing carefully in his fingers so as to not burn his jeans and James isn’t sure what’s happening. Clouds have rolled in, dark and ominous, sun stealing clouds over hungry waves in the sea and everything is muted. James knows he should care about the look in his eyes, he knows he should try and read Jeremy better now that they have a moment to themselves, but he finds it hard to dredge up any potential meaning or implication of Jeremy’s expression. He knows he would overthink it anyways, _he always does_. He closes his eyes and wishes for the rain to come heavier, to soak through his sweater and his jeans into his bones. He takes a draw from his cigarette and hears Jeremy scoff. 

He opens his eyes, just in time.

Jeremy is stomping away, back into the office and James knows that he should call after him and try and explain, try and find the words to tell his friend what he’d done and why he’s like this, but when he tries to speak, nothing escapes his lips but smoke. James doesn’t care anymore, he just wants to go home. He watches as Jeremy walks away, familiar lines and colours fading into the distance. His heart swells in his soggy chest.

The drive from the studio to his home is a blur, gone by so fast that he wouldn’t be able to tell he’d made it if it wasn’t for his car idling in the driveway, lights illuminating the house number. The muscle memory of driving from the one location to another is so worn into his skin, his brain, that he isn’t too surprised at all. His hands clenched on the wheel of the 911, knuckles gone white and he wills them to unclench. He is home, he is in his driveway, his bag is beside him. He knows he could vault from the car and rush inside, rip it open in a frenzy of insanity, watch as the shreds of paper fall to the floor, a haphazard mess he will have to tell himself to clean later.

And yet he still won’t let himself. His self control is too good, too finely tuned for him to behave like that, even at a time like this. Even in these extreme circumstances. He would be ashamed of himself, if he rushed it, rushed the feeling of _new, dangerous, fear and the cold tendrils of anxiety spiking as he thinks about it too hard_. His knuckles eventually unclasp and he lifts his fingers from the care-worn leather of the steering wheel, the pads of his fingertips tracing the stitching on the underside until he feels calm enough to actually get out of the car.

The second he gets inside he takes the letter out, and then his bags are dropped and forgotten somewhere along the way, trembling hands beginning to tear the corner of the heavy envelope before he realizes what he’s doing, moving across the kitchen to get the letter opener instead. Bone white handle, made with some kind of resin or epoxy he guessed. Lacquered to give it shine, make it more premium, and yet forgetting that it would eventually be dropped against solid oak floors and subsequently chipped. He drags his nail across one of the chips in the handle, letting it catch and scrape away more of the peeling clear-coat. He knows he’s stalling, he knows he’s being overly finicky and he can’t help himself from doing it, and besides, he wants to take his time. He’s alone in the house, blinds drawn and lights low, he wants to savour this moment, the build up so great and all-encompassing, so many nights spent awake debating with himself whether or not to even go through with it, he finally had his answer and he was going to take his bloody time thank you very much.

And yet…

What if the results weren’t what he was hoping for? _What if there isn't a name at all?_ His head swam, considering the possibility...was it even possible? No, it isn’t possible. They would have phoned or emailed, they would have told him, wouldn’t they? They took his fucking blood, his saliva, they owed him an answer.

Sliding the blade of the letter opener into the fold of the envelope, he held his breath, until the metal slipped through the fibres and out the other end, he held his breath and his hands shook and he did nothing to subdue it. The paper inside was folded perfectly over into thirds, heavy enough to leave permanent folds in the sheet disrupting the flow of the printed words, bending them and distorting the letters. Sitting down hard into the kitchen chair he was thankful to have right behind him, James shut his eyes, took a deep breath in and began to read. His back still hurt, exacerbated by the hard wood of the chair, his fingers slipping across the paper with sweat and fear and something he can’t name as his eyes gloss over the formalities and drivel. His head swims with cold panic and the words on the sheet blur as he reads, wishing he’d grabbed his glasses. 

The further he reads, the more the panic courses through him. Before he reaches the end, before blue eyes can skim the final line where it lists the name of his supposed soulmate, he pauses. In his mind, his heart of hearts, deep in his soul he knows who it will be, still knows it better than he knows his own fucking name even after all the months of waiting. He just knows.

 _He reads it. He reads it and his lungs plummet into his stomach and he nearly drops the sheet from his hands, nearly sweeps the wine glass from the table, if only just to see it shatter. The cold fear of knowing, the “be sure, be sure…” of warning echoing in his head and now he is sure he will be sick._

_He knew it. He fucking knew it._

His hands do not stop shaking where he's threaded them through his greying strands, not when he stands to place the paper sheet back into its cream envelope once the nausea subsides, or when he forces himself to mechanically heat up leftovers he isn’t hungry for and watches as the fork in his right hand trembles against the ceramic. He brushes the taste of wine from his teeth with a shaking fist, and pulls the sheets over a body that does not stop vibrating. His mind is swimming, flotsam and jetsam of emotions swaying like a ship out on the dark sea, washes of pure joy, of unbridled love and hope and happiness, and the smell of cigarettes, pale blues and greens blossoming behind his eyes that quickly switches into black dog despair, shaggy and wet and rancid as its breath licks against him, and the cycle begins again. He isn’t sure whether or not to allow himself to be happy or to sob into his pillow. 

He lies awake trying to decide, the ceiling shifting from black, to blue, to yellow above him and his eyes burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
